Very Bad Things
by GigliwasCool
Summary: Tommy says very bad things. Tommy thinks very bad things. Tommy does very bad things. “I don’t want to say ‘knickers’, it doesn’t feel right.” [Rating for language]
1. Chapter 1

**Very Bad Things**

Rating: M-ish for language.

Summary: Tommy needs some help getting over his mistakes and moving on. He needs help getting the girl whether he wants to admit it or not. And now, he has found himself plagued with help. Help that he never really asked for but always needed.

Time Frame: Post-Date with a Night. Nothing from the 3rd season has happened. So: No crazy guy with a vendetta, No Sadie breaking Kwest's heart, No bitchy Sadie, No dead Patsy, No wishy-washy Portia, No mean Jamie. There is however: Karma (I kinda love her), and Liam.

Disclaimer: I do not own Instant Star, Very Bad Things, Tegan and Sara's song _Where Does the Good Go?, _I Heart Huckabees or anything else that is previously patented.

Author's Note: Hello! I'm back, for real. I swear. I have this loverly fic, and this chapter is just the prelude of things to come. I ripped the title, and some quotes, from Peter Berg's film _Very Bad Things_. It's funny and I felt like it was almost perfect for Tommy. Also, this fic is based off a one shot I did one time, _Like a Virgin_, and I always meant to post it on here. If you've read it before, the two have the same basic premise but I took the one-shot and blew it out to a full length fic. I'm thinking this could be novel length, unless you hate it. Then I swear to stop posting and sulk in my misery, but let me know either way: so relax, read, and review!

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**Prologue: Where Does the Good Go?**

_"What am I doing? I don't know what I'm doing. I'm doing the best that I can. I know that's all I can ask of myself. Is that good enough? Is it hopeless to try and change things?" -_Albert Markovski, I (Heart) Huckabees

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'Taste the milk before you buy the cow.'

'Don't play with yourself in church.'

'Don't swear around a lady.'

'Don't read Cosmo, look at the pictures.'

'Anything worth fighting is worth fighting dirty for.'

'Don't eat yellow snow.'

'If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you haven't tried yet.'

'Swim at your own risk.'

'One can never have too many socks.'

These are words of wisdom. Things you've learned for your father, from that friend who is infinitely stupid but always has an answer for everything, from your older sister who finally grew out of being a bitch, or you know, Dumbledore or whatever. I, Thomas William Quincy, have a few more to graciously impart. I could be selling them on E-bay, but fuck it. I have enough money. I'm being selfless here, even though I immensely enjoy talking about myself. These are words like you have never heard them be told, the grisly truth. In my life I have managed to learn the ways of the world. At least some of them. In my twenty-four years I have learned that:

-When a reporter asks you 'Coke or Pepsi', muddle your words and make it so incoherent that you will have endorsements from both companies.

-When your manager asks: "Bandana or No Bandana?" Say _No Bandana _every time. They are never a good idea and will never be acceptable to wear.

-When surveying a wine list, do not ask the waiter "What would you recommend?" There are two ways this scenario can go. He will either a) point out the most expensive bottle, and suddenly you've blown a thousand fucking dollars on liquor that could be your mother. Or b) you have wronged the waiter in some way, maybe by breathing the same air as him, and will consequently pick the fruitiest wine on the list and then proceed clean your glass with his spit.

-A woman never really asks "Do these pants make me look fat?" She is actually saying "If you value your family jewels, tell me how skinny my ass is. Right now."

-British men are sexier than you, by default. As are: Latin men, Italian men, Irish men, French men, cultured men, tall men and tanned men. Accept the fact and get over it.

-Lean _away_ from your fly, that can become metallic jaws of castration, when zipping your pants in the morning. _There's Something About Mary _is actually not a funny movie.

And despite what you may have heard, I have learned the value of morality and knowing right from wrong. Knowing and practicing good faith are two different things, however. Just like a long blink and a nap are different.

In life, there are bad things you can do. Like sinful guidelines, they are the stuff to be avoided. If you stray from the path, then you've wronged. You've committed a sin, but not against any kind of God. If you do a bad thing, you have committed a regular offense. Nothing special, nothing particular, nothing to send you running to an altar or into a bath of holy water. Giving your brother, or band mate whatever, a bloody nose is a bad thing to do. But you're a dude, you hit him then he hits you. There's blood, and possibly a broken nose. In a few hours time you'll pissed drunk, off hospital booze, laughing about the whole thing, and then demanding a sponge bath like a stupid douche bag. Bad things should be avoided, but are never the end of the world. Do a bad thing? Repent and get on with your life. Examples of bad things: Not recycling, lying to your girlfriend, running with scissors, throwing sticks, stealing library books, pillaging towns in a wooden horse, promiscuity (unless you _like _being an STD factory), shopping while you're hungry, buying porn and leaving it out for your mother to see, watching 7th Heaven, My Chemical Romance, Susanne Sommers, Jay Leno, dressing in costume for Halloween.

In life, there are _very _bad things you can do. Very bad things are like a mortal sin. Avoid them like the transvestite at a bachelor party, because suddenly his Adam's apple isn't quite so pronounced and his boobs look real. Avoid very bad things like they are a penis-cutting plague. Do not become entangled in very bad things. They fuck you over just after the offense is committed but then continue to kick you in the balls for eternity. Very bad things become messier with time.

Like kicking a puppy? That is a very bad thing. First of all it's a horrible thing to do. **What did that puppy ever do to you?** I can assure that the answer will always be: nothing. The puppy never did anything to you. Even if he pissed in your shoe, it doesn't matter. Brush it off, and release the anger. Because if you kick him, then you're fucked. This brings me to my second point: if any female finds out you kicked an innocent puppy, she will screw you over for the rest of you sexual existence. Seriously, you might as well become asexual and have babies with yourself. Because she will tell everyone she knows, and then, to every woman, you will be the guy who kicked the puppy. And no one will sleep with the asshole who kicked a puppy. Other examples of very bad things: bestiality of any kind, male tights, hitting a girl, uncontrolled fire, copious drinking with a friend-slash-weird-sexual-tension-partner, drunk sex (very bad in a very good way), drinking games, the O.C., Jude Law, the lethal combination of: slutty groupies, booze, a bed, two weeks and the words "I'm late", pining for a girl, dating a sister (Don't do it. Just don't.)

Now you must be saying, 'Tommy, what if I get _roped_ into very bad things.' I will say, 'Don't call me Tommy, weren't not friends'. I will also give you an example of getting roped into very bad things. Read these instances, commit them to memory, and avoid the situations.

Getting on a plane? Innocuous thing. Getting on a plane to Vegas? Bad thing. Accidentally killing a prostitute in Vegas? _Very _bad thing.

Looking at a girl? Innocuous thing. Leering at a girl? Bad thing. Making suggestive gestures at a girl? _Very _bad thing, she could be your boss or your boss' wife or your cousin.

Playing darts? Innocuous thing. Drinking and then playing darts? Bad thing. Drinking in a crowded bar, playing darts, and attracting a large throng of people by taking bets? _Very_ bad thing.

Do you see the pattern? A sequence of events can lead you down a very dangerous road. These examples should show you how to discern a situation and assess the possibility of it blooming into a very bad situation. If you can't do that... well then, you're fucked. Too bad.

**Why am I an expert? **I have done very bad things that are often unspeakable in modest company. I have done things that make my father blush. I have taken the heat and then some for the things that I've done. I've learned and I'm wiser than you could imagine. In my young life I've said very bad things, ('It's not you, it's me') I've done very bad things, (excessively relishing in chocolate pudding in front of a dieting Portia, a version of Portia who has zero willpower and is not above mauling people for a spoonful of chocolate) and I've thought very bad things ('Maybe I should lift weights'). And I've learned life's lessons from these very bad things I've done. I made very bad mistakes and I learned the very hard lessons. That is why I am the expert. Seriously, look at your twenty four year old cousin who still plays with your Kareoke machine and comments on how comfortable your couch is. Look at me.

I don't often make one mistake twice, because I always distinctly recall the repercussions. Those are never something I want to deal with more than once. And you know the saying, the one your dad tells you after you fuck up a Math test or fling a rock into your sister's eye with a sling-shot: Just don't make the same mistake twice. Well, I listened. More or less. There is one very bad thing, though, that I've been doing since my booty-shaking days of Boyz Attack! It is one very bad thing I haven't told you about yet. It is the very bad thing that has haunted me through my teenage years and continues to haunt my through someone else's. It is a very, very, _very_ bad thing. And I can't seem to shake it.

This one very bad thing that a man should never do is: Break a lovely girl's heart. It is the ultimate sin. (Not to diminish homely girls' worth. Don't break their hearts either.) It is the one lesson he should always learn vicariously through some other moron. I'm the moron. I'm the one that other people learn from. I'm the one that women shake their heads at and the one their husbands thank their lucky stars not to be. I break lovely girls' hearts. I don't mean to, but I do. I don't want to, but I do. I try not to, but I do. I've broken her heart into shattered pieces and each time, I think is the last time. Sometimes I wonder whether it's a conscious effort. I wonder if I really _am _doing it on purpose. I wonder if I intentionally break her heart, just to know that I still can.

**How do you know when to let go?** I know when, I can pinpoint the moment I let go. The moment my world crashes down in silent symphony. I recognize the moments right before she's going to break. It's like, _shit_, what is _wrong_ with me? Why can't I stop? Am I fucking pathological? Am I my _mother_? I can see a small gleam in her eyes, just…snuff out. And in my head, sirens are blaring. _What am I doing? What am I doing? What in the _fuck _am I doing? _And I can't help it. The answer comes to me: _I don't know what I am doing. I have no fucking idea. I. Don't. Know. _Before I can blink, the gleam dims and I say the last few words or I take the last few steps and she's broken. And I'm still talking or I'm still walking away.

Then I stop, like I'm completely suspended in mid-air, looking down at the mess I've created. The mess that is pure _fuck_ because, Jesus, I am not getting out of this one. And I'm quiet with the snap of my jaw or I'm halted with my foot mid-step and the sirens blare again. _Is it worth even trying to change? Is there any chance that_ _I'll see the end? No. This is it for me. I can't fix this._ So I do stop talking, I keep walking. I walk and my heart is breaks each time, and she's broken each time. I break her every time.

But she's incredible, she springs back. She lives again, she laughs again, she loves again. She bounces back, but never the same as before. She's wiser, she's jaded, she's learned. But she doesn't learn quickly enough, because if she did I would be out of her life faster than some asshole can buy her a shot. She makes this mistake over and over again: she trusts me, over and over again. I can't help but be amazed. I'm astonished.

**Where does the good go?, **I always think.If there was good in this world, she would learn and stay the fuck away from me. She wouldn't come within in a ten-foot radius, if there was any good left. She would carry Mase and burn my eyes out of my skull if I came near, if there was any good left. She would get an attack dog and train him to my scent, if there was any good left. I'm grateful but I'm ashamed. I can start over again, but I feel guilty. I try to keep her whole but I can't. She is my one mistake, my worst mistake, my favorite mistake. The mistake I'll never stop making.

But I want to change. Change myself, my life, my ways, my _anything _that will make it work. That will keep her whole. Maybe I sent out some cosmic plea in a desperate search for some real help. Solid help that won't wither away at my touch. The kind of help that people build empires on, like Bill Gates. That shrewd bastard probably got some other-worldly help too. I got help, though, I really did. In two ways that I would have never imagined. In two ways I loathe, and in two ways I could not be more grateful for. Two ways that make me wonder if I'm actually in hell. –If I have actually died and have been sent to my own personal hell and Darius _is _Satan. Then I light up an unfiltered cigarette that remind me of my dad, and I realize: no, I'm not in hell. Sometimes I don't know if I'm relieved or not– Two ways I might resent at every turn of the corner, but they're teaching me and I'm learning. Slowly, I'm changing. And soon, I'm going to make up for the very bad things that I've done. I'm going to make penance for the lovely hearts I've broken by piecing one heart back together. I'm going to get the girl. But I'll have a little more help than I did the last times.

**--Just a prologue, more to come. Review! I'm a whore for them, I know.**


	2. 1: Of Knights and Malfoys

**Very Bad Things**

Rating: M. Seriously bad language, the easily offended should take their leave.

Summary: Tommy needs some help getting over his mistakes and moving on. He needs help getting the girl whether he wants to admit it or not. And now, he has found himself plagued with help. Help that he never really asked for but always needed.

Thank You's: PlzLukePlz, strawberrigashes, NotAContrivance, foxyroxystar, flowersinmyhair, amrod23, and starfan88. You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thank you times a million! I also must thank anyone else who's reading, I love you too.

Disclaimers: I don't own _Instant Star,_ any of the subsequent characters, Draco Malfoy, Dr. O'Malley, Thank You for Smoking, or anything else previously patented.

Author's Note: Ok here is the second installement, chapter 1. Sorry it took so long, life caught up with me. The beginning sets the stage for the fic and the rest goes on to follow Tommy. I figure he's pretty vulgar, so you'll find the chapter behave accordingly. This chapter is also longer tan I intended, so if you like the length let me know. If it's too much to handle or swallow, let me know also. So leave me a little love at the end and tell me what you think :o)

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**Chapter 1: Of Knights and Malfoys**

_"My job requires a certain…moral flexibility." _Nick Naylor, Thank You for Smoking

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Do you guys know about the angel and the devil that hang around inside you like those weird skater kids who loiter around the Piggly Wiggly? They float somewhere inside your body, or maybe they _aren't _inside you and they watch from their respective homes, waiting for that _perfect_ moment to pop up and give you an ultimatum? The miniature devil is usually decked out in some red garb with a freaky-ass pitch fork, a mean streak three miles long and a nastiness that just radiates off of him. And the tiny angel goes the whole nine yards too: the white toga, the faint heavenly glow, the halo, and the harp –the _damn _harp that he doesn't actually know how to play. The two that give you that one final choice between good and bad? (And also make it a habit to start fighting with each other and make you skid off the road right in front of a cop because you were too busy trying to pacify them to fucking _drive._)Like fucking Regis Philban, but no Kelly Ripa to counteract them. They're like a '**Mind the Gap**' sign, you stand there reading it and laughing because, come on it's a little funny, but you don't realize there really _was_ a gap between the ground you're walking on and the Earth's core. Then you trip. And then you're dead.

They're some kind of celestial kick in the pants, sent by the wrath of an overpowering god who feels the need to inflict levels of anguish, that are beyond all understanding, on men in the form two little bickering assholes for constant companions.

Or maybe fucking Oprah sent them to me, so I could fucking get in touch with my feelings. Stupid bitch. No really. Think about it. While she's making a mockery and an example of me, I feel like I'm sitting on my fucking couch in my underwear and scratching my balls while the whole fucking world watches. This experience could be potentially traumatizing and I really doubt Oprah will buy the extensive therapy I will need. I mean, maybe she would apologize and then exploit the hell out of my story. But who the fuck needs that? I would have to speak at her fucking Legends' Balls. I'll give her Legend Balls. Fuck, that didn't even make sense. But still her apology would be for a big fat nothing. No thing. For nothing.

Like in _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_, when Kate Winslet and Jim Carrey spend the whole damn movie trying to preserve their memories about laying down on cracked ice together, so she hides all over his brain. And then it turns out that their freaky attempts basically failed because Mark Ruffalo is too busy getting naked and stupid with Kirsten Dunst, who it turns out was fucking the doctor who created the whole mess, and then Elijah Wood jerks off into Kate's underwear. And after that fucking emotionally _draining_ **two**hours, he's still a pussy-whipped loser and she's still a crazy whore. Sorry. I never liked that movie. Jude did though. So I pretended to like it for her. Please don't tell her I said 'pussy'.

Anyway, if you didn't know, the pair makes up your cosmic duo that sometimes pops in 'just to say hullo' and other times to offer their unsolicited opinion on an array of subjects: your un-matching socks, your choice of coffee in the morning, the amount of gel in your hair, your love making abilities, and so on until the end of time. And after their due opinion on the matter has been rendered, they hang around on your shoulders and don't go away. And suddenly it feels like you're caught in a tennis match while they go back and forth, debating the worth of your soul and morals. –And not even a real tennis match with that hot Russian blonde and those two Williams sisters– Sometimes it feels like a constant crotch-wedgie. You know, when you sit the wrong way for too long and then your boxers are wedged between…yea. It sucks. They both suck.

If you didn't know, the angel and the devil are two little beings that represent the two polar extremities of your subconscious and conscience, sent down by some blathering idiot who can laugh at your cosmic misfortune. Stupid fucker. They're two reminders of every choice you can make: the deciding factors, the 'outside temptations', the consequences. They're right and wrong, yin and yang, Mother Teresa and Charles Manson. I'm sure you know them. They've gotten some great publicity since every sitcom of the 90's had at least one episode where the two fuckers pop up and bug the shit out of the main character while everyone has a nice laugh at his expense.

Well the next time I watch old episodes of _Growing Pains, _or _Sabrina the Teenage Witch_ or _Boy Meets World _or _Step by Step_,I'm really not going to be laughing at the poor schmuck because for the last few years _I_ have been flanked by these two douche bags. And while I'm guessing my angel wouldn't really appreciate me calling him a douche bag, I don't care. Because he's not only a douche bag, but he's British too. I generally don't have anything against the British, except for Prince William, but everything he says to me sounds infinitely smarter, and I feel like the fucking teacher for Charlie Brown and just sit there and make weird muffled sounds back at him.

And he is often condemning me on my own stupidity, but he's too nice to call it that. "I fancy that you are just misguided in the academic verse. I would happily oblige to be your guide and take you through the vast and awe-inspiring halls of learning in this world." It also happens that the mini devil counterpart is Irish and often cuts in with a sharp-tongued, "Shut the hell up, you twat". I don't know what a _twat_ is, but the angel takes great offense. I would rather have been sent a damn dog. There are hundreds of reasons why, other than the fact that I could teach him to bring me my slippers… But then I would have to go buy some slippers.

One rationale being, I'm fairly sure that Fido wouldn't carry out a death warrant on my family if I don't call him but his proper Christian name. Did you know that the little angel and devil have actual names that their tiny parents gave them at their equally tiny births? (Yea. Think about _that_. Then shove it in your pipe and smoke it.) And they become overtly disgruntled if I don't use them properly. They're especially not big on nicknames either. If I had a nickel for every time I heard, "For the _last _time, Thomas, my name is Victor. V-I-C-T-O-R. Not 'little angel', not 'fuzzy wings', not 'Vicky', and _not _'Mother Teresa.' " I would be able to pay off all my various hair-product debts.

And the little devil has a more foul mouth than a sailor, so his insistences that I use his name are laced with obscenities that make Victor's toes curl and have, on occasion, made me blush. It usually comes out along the lines of, "Listen you pompous prick, I'll hang your balls from your ears next time you call me anything but my name. It's Julian. I won't fucking spell it out for you because you're not a total piss-brain. But next time I hear you call me 'Julian Caesar', 'Charles Manson', 'Little Lucifer', or 'Satan's penis' I'll drag your brains out through your nose and eat 'em. Dumb fuck…"

Another reason I wish that Oprah had sent me a dog is that Victor and Julian don't look like me. Seriously, those misleading fuckers in television totally and completely lied. Not even a fib. They fucking _lied_! On TV, the angel and the devil are always **exact** replicas of whichever stupid fuck that got stuck with them. But Julian and Victor look _nothing _like my mini-twins. They have their own looks, and their own personalities that go on for days, and would probably be offended if they heard me bitching. But still. They don't look like me. Hence my foul mood that I don't get to look at little miniature me's all day. If I did, I wouldn't nag half as much as I do because I would get to look at myself all day. In fact, _two _of myself. And because, if they looked like me I would know that _I_ was only doing the best for myself, and not listening to two weirdos that may not have my best intentions at heart. So if Julian and Victor were replicas of me I would be more inclined to listen to them. Because they would essentially be _me _by looking like me.

But they don't. Julian has, ironically, platinum gilded hair that blinds me to death every time he's in the sun. (Victor likes to tease that his mother spun Julian's locks from gold when he was still a good angel. Then Julian says something foul about Victor's mother.) I feel like it has a personal vendetta against me, and I'm wise enough not to shrug it off. His hair may render me blind while I'm driving or having sex or something. He has a sharp jaw, that clenches deeply whenever Victor speaks, and a build that would intimate me if he weren't just shy of two feet. His skin is pristinely pale and honestly…it's just too goddamn paradoxical to even think about. I mean really, he's supposed to do the devil's bidding but he looks like a damn cherub. But I suppose his angelic appearance is completely canceled out by his offensive mouth. Anyway he kinda looks, and acts, like a conglomeration of Draco Malfoy, his weird dad with long girl-hair, and Lewis Black.

And Victor looks like… a skinny Elton John, minus the costumes. No I take that back. Every time he's been in my car, he insists on wearing these ridiculous pink-rimmed sunglasses. He says his wife told him they compliment his high cheek bones. The high cheek bones that he doesn't have. He has a jovial face that is usually red with indignation or fury at the things Julian or I say. But when he's serene and telling me what to do, his face is unearthly calm. He reminds me of George O'Malley sometimes, with the perpetually messy hair and the almost endearing innocence and naivety. I say 'almost' because he's so stupid sometimes that it pisses me off. I guess he would be kind of like the bastard offspring of Elton John and Dr. O'Malley. Oh…I guess that's probably sacrilegious. But I would sort of like to see the look on Victor's face if I ever said that to him. He would probably wet himself with indignation. Ha ha.

I guess I shouldn't bitch though, Julian and Victor haven't been a life-long affliction. In fact, I can tell you just how long these two fools have been hanging around me –and not to mention getting so angry with each other at every turn, that the force of their yelling causes spit to fly from their tiny mouths and onto the collar of my shirts. They came around, almost to the exact moment, that I fell for Jude Harrison. They immediately started flinging me warnings to heed and telling me what to do. Victor with a more romantic and righteous inclination and Julian with a more…sexually _forward_ and aggressive inclination.

But isn't it sad that a _girl_ rouses something of a conscience in me and my own mother can't, even with all the spiritual help she sought from our local priest that one time? And how pathetic is it that they show up to instruct me on my life love. It's not like I'm some kind of slouch in that department or that I do ugly girls. But whatever, they showed up right after that day at the lake and haven't left me the hell alone since.

'Do this, Thomas.' 'Fuck off, Tom.'

'Can you tune the strings on my harp, Thomas?' 'Can I have a look at your stash, Tom?'

'I really wouldn't do that, Thomas.' '…Neither would I, Tom.'

I should charge them rent but a few reasons have impeded this: 1) I really don't think they're heavenly and demonic currencies will float with the plebeians here on Earth and I don't think I can exchange it for real money at the bank and 2) I would sort of be selling my body and therefore _technically _making me a prostitute. So that's a no-go. And while I can't charge them for their lodgings, whenever they offer their advice I just don't take it.

This usually results in me making _no _decision but I'm ok with that, as long as there's one furious angel who really had his heart set on a Carmel Macchiato and one irate devil who would have loved nothing more than an extra strong brew of Verona with a splash from his hip-flask. And while I drink my fruity, in every sense of the word, Pomegranate Juice-Blend no one wins. Especially not me because I recently found out that juice blends don't have any caffeine in them. It's all juice and really tart. So while I'm making weird faces at my straw, hot joggers run by and looking at me like I'm a dumb fuck. Which I am.

But I don't want to sound ungrateful, even though I am. There have been a few advantages to their indefinite residence. Now I don't have to figure out the waiter's tip at restaurants anymore because Victor is a math genius and does it for me. And I don't have to check the weather because Victor and Julian have a heads-up on that kind of things with their whole extra-terrestrial nature and stuff. (But they're not aliens. I've asked.) I never have to restock my liquor cabinet either, because Julian has this covered. (Once I asked why he shamelessly plays into an inaccurate and stereotypical demographic and he says he drinks because he is a 'bad ass motherfucker' not because he's Irish.) And I don't have to sleep with my cell phone glued to me anymore because Victor and Julian take turns waking me up. Like this morning in particular.

"Do you want me to get naked and start a revolution?" A maniacal laugh follows.

I feel like reaching out and choking him, I happened to be in the middle of a good dream. A dream I would have loved to continue. But I stretch my arms tiredly, grumble incoherently and somewhat stupidly, and look down to make sure I'm safely tucked in my boxers. Victor has a tendency to become extreme offended at any peeks of morning wood. Like he _never_ gets it. Oh…maybe angels aren't allowed.

"I have a question." I tell them both, looking down at my nightstand to see them looking primp, proper, and ready to harass me. –Sometimes they sit on my shoulders, but I've taken to flicking them off of me with so much relish that they find that anywhere not actually _on _me, but near me, is safer.

Victor is still spinning over Julian's threat of nudity so the latter looks up at me disinterestedly. "Why Lenny Kravitz was ever popular?" I ignore the obvious butchering of the man's name, even though _Lhannie Khravhitzs _is a perfectly acceptable name.

"Honestly, do you fancy yourself Captain Jack Sparrow?" Victor poses but is decisively ignored by both Julian and I. Victor promptly sends himself into a huffy fit.

"Do you guys have anything better do?" I ask, still ignoring Victor, raking a hand over my haggard face. I feel stubble meet my knuckles and stretch again for a moment before heading to my bathroom.

Elton John Jr. seems to have gotten over his ire and looks up at me with a pitying expression because he thinks my skull is thick as a shag carpet. "I've told you Thomas, because we are you spiritual guides. Instructors, if you will-"

"I will not."

"-Once you find your moral compass and do not stray for its righteous path, we'll leave."

"Why the fuck am I still around, then?" Julian demands. He smells like grain alcohol this morning.

"_Because_ you represent the reality of temptation in the world and the need for Thomas to resist it. You are merely my foil."

I wasn't really asking why I was cursed with their constant presence -I have a feeling there's some karma from a past life that I need to make up for.

I was asking why they are so _constantly_ around me, they have to have miniature families to go home to now and then. But they're off, fighting over who the main character of this nonexistent story is. I really feel the need to point out that _I _am the protagonist, and if this were a movie or a book the audience would be riveted on _my _life and cheering for _my _success (or whatever people who read books do). Not their lives. But I keep my mouth shut because I'm not as stupid as I make myself look.

The two continue to fight while an uncomfortable tug from a full night of sleep makes me wince. I look over at my toilet but suddenly their tiff escalates and the tiny men in my bathroom are shouting at each other. I look between them and the toilet, and I seriously consider…_relieving _myself on them. But that would be wrong, so I shrug away from them and ease the deep pull at my bladder.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the flush of the toilet. I walk over, checking my watch that is sitting too near to the sink and wondering if Jude wants a ride this morning, turning the hot water faucet and wait for it to collect.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the rushing tap water. I grab a towel and do with the same with the hot water faucet in my shower.

They're still fighting, not drowned out by the beating rhythm of the shower. But I effectively tune them out, returning myself to my dream. I'm not even ashamed of how reminiscent it is of my horny teenage years because it just makes me so damn happy.

_The morning had started out normally enough. _

_I pull up in the Viper, hoping Jude will notice that I got in back it from the shop last night. I park next to Spied's 'love van' and watch it rock back and forth on its frame and look at my watch. **9:13. **Wow, he's getting an earlier start than usual. Or maybe they still think its last night and are making the most of their youth. I've taught him so well, I think, and make a mental note to check my secret stash of Grey Goose that I accidentally showed to Spied one time. Walking towards the entrance, I pretend like I have too much in my hands to help Karma with the door when we happen to walk in together. She gives me a smile like she doesn't notice what an asshole I am, so I smile back and take off down opposite direction. I uncap my coffee, letting the steam billow in my eyes and make them water while the heavy aroma of the coffee fills my nose. I can't walk straight for a moment. I wonder what Jude is wearing this morning, hoping that it's blue. Blue is my favorite on her. _

_I walk through G-Major, bid my good morning to my low friends in high places, mentally ticking off all the favors they owed me or who's wives I'd slept with, then make me way towards the kitchens. I pass Darius' secretary, who is hard at work on her computer. She spares me a small smile, cupping her hand over the end the receiver. She whispers to me while someone continues to chat on the other line, 'Darius says to come see him later this afternoon. I think it's something good.' She adds a small wink. _

I stall for a moment, feeling the water beat down, realizing it's too hot. But I smile despite my discomfort, wondering if Darius will ever have something good to tell me. My bet is **no**. I turn the heat down, feeling the water chill against me. Suddenly it's not hot enough any more and I miss the scalding pressure on my back. I pause for a moment before turning the water even hotter than it was before. The steam and heady scent of morning swirl in front of my eyes, making me dizzy.I stumble slightly in the shower but catch myself on the sliding handle. Then thank my lucky stars that I didn't accidentally open the shower door like the last time I got dizzy and reached for the first available thing to steady myself. Victor blushed for a week and Julian still makes 'hung' jokes that aren't funny. I right myself, close my eyes, and smile contentedly.

_I see a vibrant bowl sitting before her as I flash a smile. I give a small bob my head towards the bowl and she nods nicely before turning back to her phone call. I listen in with innocent curiosity. "I'm sorry Liam, we just can't have you here any more." My curiosity is no longer innocent. "We heard about your…pastimes and we just can't have someone like that on board at G-Major." I have to tell Jude. "Maybe Epic Records will want you. Please don't call anymore." I indulge myself in a wide grin. Liam was such a sly bastard that it was only a matter of time before karma wrapped its vindictive hands around his throat. And not karma like the person, Karma. _

_I look down at small bowl of cherries and raspberries lying idly before me, and spot that the balance between the two is slightly uneven. I hunch over and see that the cherries are so shiny that I can see my reflection. I smile and wink to myself, because I really do deserve it. The raspberries tumble over, making a mountain in the small bowl. I know that Jude has been here when I notice there are far fewer cherries. I pluck the last two out of the bowl and take my leave to find her. Cherries are her favorite. _

_-- _**I actually have a few end notes that I forgot to mention. If anyone was wondering about the title of the chapter, Elton John was named a Knight in England and I am green with envy. Also, I attempted to edit so if anyone would like to beta me this and beta me that, I would love you forever. For real. That's all, just leave me something. I'm shameless, but you already knew that.**


	3. 2: By The Lake

**Very Bad Things**

Rating: M. Seriously bad language, the easily offended should take their leave.

Summary: Tommy needs some help getting over his mistakes and moving on. He needs help getting the girl whether he wants to admit it or not. And now, he has found himself plagued with help. Help that he never really asked for but always needed.

Thank You's: _foxyroxystar_ (I just love you man, for real. I love the love you leave at DLS too. smooches) _pixiestix16, tanya2byour21, l'istesso, Momma M, xosecretsongox, StalkedByABird_, and _NotAContrivance_ for being totally sexah and awesome. You people are what little fluffy dreams are made of. I love ya. And I really would love to thank you guys individually right here but I heard from a little bird that stories get booted for that kinda stuff. So I will definitely send little PM's of love to you guys who review (hint, wink and that nice stuff)

Disclaimers: I don't own Instant Star, any of the subsequent characters, or anything else.

Author's Note: Again, I seriously apologize for the wait. I suck, I know. But here is the newest chapter, picking up right where Tommy's dream left off. I thought about him getting nasty, literally and otherwise, but I decided against it.

This chapter also introduces the whole reason I started this story and it's the flashbacks in Tom's POV of all those Jommy moments that we love and cling to and cherish when Jude is off losing her virginity to Jamie. Whatever. I wasn't sure how I really wanted to format the way the memories jogged and I finally settled that I wanted to disrupt the flow of the story and make it a little rough. I don't think that our own memories and fluid and we just happen to call them up whenever we want, sometimes there's an obvious trigger and other times it's subconscious. Whatever, enough psycho babble.

Quote for this chapter it taken from Fall Out Boy's glorious new album. That sounds stupid, but seriously it's one of the best albums I've ever listened to. I totally encourage everyone to listen to it, find it, whatever. I know most people are pretty polarized about Fall Out Boy, but _Infinity on High _is love. For real. I said this once before and I must repeat it: It's more love than Pete Wentz and he's just the poster-boy for sexy love. Ok I'm done. Read and love me. Remember, reviews are totally sexah. Be totally sexah, leave a review.

_Btw- disregard the first little alert thingy for this chapter. I'm stupid, and I don't know how to work a computer._

--

**Chapter 2: By The Lake**

_"And one day, we'll get nostalgic for disaster." _Hum Hallelujah, Fall Out Boy

--

Cherries are her favorite.

_The irony is not lost on me, but I'm a twisted pervert. _

_I suddenly recall one summer when Portia brought freshly picked cherries in, claiming she had plucked them right out of her backyard. –For all intents and purposes she _had_, but she had really sent Darius' agent on the job. She said she loved to see men in suits climbing trees and getting her fruit. Whatever– Jude loved those cherries, not wasting one bite and relishing in every moment they lasted. I loved watching her eat those cherries. Those were happiest moments of my sick life. _

_I sing a small tune to myself, trying not to feel giddy at the memories. I make my way to the kitchens, feeling my body hum with a certain need for a cup of coffee. For a while, Jude tried to get me to drink tea, saying that I needed to start watching my health. I wondered if I really was getting old and if a visit to the funeral home director was in order. But then she gave up, saying I was just too stubborn and that of all the things I did to my body, the last thing she should be worrying about is my coffee intake. I still wonder how much she worries about me, and I still smile a little bit at the thought. _

_I coincidentally find Jude in the kitchens, grunting in frustration and wrestling with the coffee pot. I don't blame her, she's doesn't know how to coexist with technology. It was never a problem when it came to coffee-making in the past because our coffee pot outlived those bitchy kids from Seattle who decided the whole world could not bear the weight of mornings without overpriced cups of coffee, but Darius just celebrated his 35th birthday again and the studio got his cast-off gifts. One of them happened to be the most intimidating espresso-maker that I have ever encountered. _

_I walk behind her, listening to her angry rant. "You _will_ work. You will make me some coffee. If that doesn't happen, you will find yourself in the trash. Or I will give you to my dad. He will probably violate you and mangle you in ways you never imagined before you can even _think _of making the weird…p-puh-puffing noise again. Do we have an understanding?" Her brows are furrowed in concentration. She emphasizes each threat with a metallic jab and I can only imagine she's trying to force coffee beans where they're not supposed to be, but she's blocking my entire view of her work. I take the opportunity to stare at her ass, admiring it. _

_"**Make**. Me. Coffee. NOW." She screams, throwing her hands into the air. I smother my mirth letting out a silent breath of laughter and wonder if she's trying to summon the Gods. With a violent jerk of her arms an ugly metallic noise follows and suddenly the floor is covered in dark coffee beans. "Oh. Bite me." She finished hopelessly, and I see her shoulders hunch over in a crumpled heap. _

_I can't help but intervene. I step forward and press myself into her back, my hands coming around her waist and my breath hot on her ear. I feel her own breath hitch against my abdomen while her fingers dig into my hands. Ow. Son of a bitch, that really hurts. Her nails don't release their vice grip for even a moment and I force down the urge to swear and run to hospital and have my wounds examined. I think that would ruin the mood. _

_"Time, place, and hardness." I pose conversationally and disentangle myself from her gently. I look down at my hands, stinging and red from where her nails had almost drawn blood, wincing as discreetly as I know how. I stoop down and gather a few beans in my cupped hands. I throw them away, my halfhearted attempt to clean finished, and walk to the machine. _

_I toss a glance over at her, looking as unhitched as I have ever seen her: her chest heaving in spurts, her eyes hooded, her bangs matted to her forehead. I smirk to myself, because, yes, I've still got it. I'm gonna age just like Richard Gere and land babes well into my fifties. She clears her throat and smoothes a hand over her face, pausing to fluff her bangs away. Her eyes suddenly narrow on my face, her mouth pouting. _

_"What are you even talking about?" _

_"_When_ would you like to bite you? _Where_ would you like me to bite you?" She's mad at me: she's cross her hands and making an exaggerated stomp with her right foot. I smirk devilishly, relishing in her agitated fury. "And _how hard _would you like me to bite you?" Her eyes snap at me, her gasp not fully formed. She's thinking about killing me. She's thinking about how to hide my body. _

_"You wouldn't bite me, Quincy." She says finally. I wonder if they'll ever find me. _

_'No, not unless you ask me to' retort to myself but it let it die in her irritated wake. I snap the steamer into place, the froth of the coffee dripping into her mug at once. _

_"Fixed it. No need to sic your father on it." I tell her and make to leave. I feel her hand on my wrist, halting me mid-step. I turn towards her. Her lips are poised in a light smirk, her eyes dancing at me. _

_She cocks her head at me, her glare asking me 'How would you like to die?' She says something, but I don't listen. I don't like to listen. I watch her tongue cluck against the roof of her mouth and lips fall over her teeth while she talks. Her bottom lip is slightly reddened, like she'd sucked it between her teeth earlier. A feral smile spreads across my face at the thought of trapping the same lips between my own teeth. She's mid sentence when I pull her closer to me, brushing a finger against a lock of hair that fell in her face. _

_I hush her, and press my lips against hers. Electricity rides through my limbs, stirring me more awake than I have ever been. It's likes shock therapy with sex. _

_Her pouty lips are pressing flush into mine, her mouth slightly agape. It's soft, like her skin. It's hot like her breath against my mouth. It's open and like her legs. I push my knee between her legs, making a gap and a connection, and take advantage of her parted lips. I run my tongue along her bottom lip, just to know what she tastes like. _

_She tastes bitter. She tastes sweet. She tastes like coffee and cherries. I inhale and tear myself away from her, intoxicated. My head is swimming and I can't find my footing. Her heaving chest is strained against mine, making me buzz excitedly. I content myself by taking her hand, and keeping it fairly PG. I run a small circle around her palm, looking down at our hands. _

_"You taste like you've already had some coffee, Jude." I tell her matter-of-factly and watch her smirk. I bend down to run my tongue against her lips again, and feel her teasing grin slip. She shudders against me, her sigh rumbling through me on a rampage. I feel the crevices of her lips, the moisture from our kiss, and the sugar of the cherries. I snake my hands down her back and press them against the jean-clad ass I have so ardently admired. _

The dream is effectively killed when Victor pops in to tell me that my hot water is running out and that I should "stop being so dirty and foul." Only it sounds like '_dhirrtie aande_ _fowelle'. _

I step out and look at the two, hearing that the fight has progressed onto their eternal battle: Whether Barbra Walter's hair is actually nesting little fields of mice. I assume they have something else to fight about, something that bears worth on my life but I'm not going to bring it up. Partly because I think they fight so much due to the irrepressible sexual tension between them, and I'm smart enough not to talk about that either.

I look over at the two, my 'come on, seriously just get a room already' look not even in place when Julian gives me the finger. I guess he can actually hear what I'm thinking. "Fuck you." He says. That's nice. Really sweet. Victor immediately berates the other and I feel like smashing them between the pages of a dictionary.

I let the towel fall from my hands and run my fingers through my still wet hair. Water still clings to my skin, creating an uncomfortable and humid blanket. I finally realize how hot my shower had been when I see my red and raw skin and see a flush in Julian and Victor's cheeks and the tips of their ears. It could be because of their heated fighting, but mostly I think it's from the excess humidity of my shower.

_Oh.Oh._

**She's looking at me, and I watch the wind catch strands of her hair. She's half smiling, like she's only half happy. I'm half smiling because I'm only half falling. I don't recognize this feeling, but something kicks up inside my gut and suddenly I'm not working right. I'm broken. Because this is not the way it was supposed to happen. I don't know this feeling, but I do. I know it's not supposed to happen yet. I know I'm not supposed to fall until I've found my footing again. This isn't supposed to happening. I shouldn't be falling yet. I shouldn't be broken yet. **

**Or maybe I'm just off kilter. And just like the sea salt winds, she kicks something up inside of me and it's blowing away with the intangible wind. **

**I need to say something, I need to make this moment go away and never revisit it, because it's illegal. And I'm a law abiding citizen. Not really, but the law is the most solid wall I can put up around and keep distance between myself and this feeling that makes me fall and makes me feel like I can't find the ground beneath my feet to bring me back down. I need something to make this stop. **

**Her mouth is suddenly parted, she's saying something but I don't notice. I can only be distracted by the way a few rays of light catch a glint from her red hair and shine a patch of light over her face. The light blinds me a little but I stare anyway. I shouldn't be watching so closely, I won't be able to scratch the pin pricks of light from my vision, and I won't be able to drive home. I shouldn't be staring because I might give her the wrong idea. **

**I know how teenage girls work, hell I invented the way teenage girls process and handle information. With my 'oh' and 'ah' and sexy pouts, I taught a generation of girls that swooning and mooning and pining is socially acceptable. The trend continues. And really, I wouldn't want to give her the wrong idea, when I don't have any kind of idea. I don't know what's going on. I just don't know and I don't want any kind of wrong idea floating around us. **

**I just know that she's something new and she's different. Maybe like a toy, maybe like a new car, maybe something I don't really know about. Something dangerous and intriguing and intoxicating. But maybe she's just a fifteen year old girl who knows how to manipulate men with an intense stare from her dark blue eyes. I don't know. **

**I know that I just met her and she makes my stomach ache and clench. I know that I want to tuck the loose strand behind her ear, so that maybe she'll like me and so that I'll be able to see her face better. I don't know, but maybe she likes her hair that way, because she can feel the wisps against her pale skin and feel a little bit like a Disney Princess. I don't know. **

**I know that this is the first time I've ever been really alone with her and that I can't remember my own name. I know that I'm the walking cliché and that I'm the reason the music business keeps recycling the same tired songs about loves that don't really exist. I know that this feeling that I'm getting keeps the world moving. **

**I know that I can smell the salt from the water below the bridge, and that the gulls are screaming at their afternoon meal and that waves are crashing against concrete pillars and that none of that can drown out the roaring in my ears. **

**I know that there's a static in my ears that is snarling so loudly that I can't even think properly. I know that I can't seem to tear my gaze away from her, and that I must be creepy. But maybe I'm sexy too. Maybe I still have that bad boy thing, which I have been trying so hard to keep and nurture and pawn off on more generations of women. She could think I'm sexy and could be thinking things that would make me blush. She could think I'm a creep and that G-Major should invest in my immediate committal to a ward. I don't know. **

**I know that I must be flirting with disaster. I know that I like it. I know that the glint in her eyes makes me wonder when I'll get to be alone with her again. I know that I like the glint in her eyes because I can see myself in it, and I can see myself watching. I can see myself stumbling, maybe falling. **

**I know that I think I might be falling into something that I know nothing about. I know that. **

_Oh.Oh._

And honestly, cold showers do nothing for me. So I figure I won't torture myself with an ice bath when it doesn't do anything helpful. I sigh haggardly, watching the residual steam from my shower mix with my breath. There's a swirling mist before me, fluttering against my drooping eyelids.

"Rough night Quincy?" Julian asks me, with a grin, like he wasn't with me last night and watching _The Colbert Report. _

I grumble about 'fucking Monday mornings', even though it's not Monday and really more to myself that to them, but I know they hear me anyway.

"I don't see how on earth you could be tired. You went to bed with the bakers."

"S'cuse?" Julian poses before I can. Translate: Excuse? Translate: Excuse me? Translate: Could you repeat that?

"Bakers rest with the sun and rise with the sun, my **daft** friend."

"I'm not your friend, you bloody git."

"I know this, you insufferable in…_incorrigible_ buffoon! I was illustrating a point and attempting to create the illusion that we are not _just_ working together on Thomas. I was, by no means, trying to forge an eternal bond of friendship with you, Julian. I was simply stating that-"

"Oh _sod _off!"

Did I die and fall into the land of Harry Potter-Insult-Trading. I haven't heard this much foreign huffing since The Goblet of Fire took a tour through G-Major.

They fight during the rest of my morning routine, pausing every so often and making me quake with frustration. I really could drop them in only a half-full sink. I could take care of my problems with half a sink of water. I could go back to normal with half a sink of water. Then I realize I could become a murderer with half a sink of water, because no matter how little they are it would still be murder. But still, no one would ever catch me…

No, that's wrong.

I physically shake my head while Victor holds up a sea-green button down shirt for me to wear. It reminds me of Liam. I want to vomit. Julian holds up my gym membership, telling me to blow off work and sculpt some muscles so that someone will be "worm for your form, Tommy ole boy." He's mocking me. I don't appreciate it. Even though I do wonder what Jude would think if I were as built as Kwest.

The two finally settle while I drink my coffee, having effectively sworn off Pomegranate blends but not the hot Starbucks barista because I still need her number, and Victor turns to me. "So, how is Jude?"

"Uh, fine," I guess. I don't really know. I haven't talked to her this morning and I refuse to be some kind of lap dog. I limit myself. I hardly ever call her anymore. Much.

Victor suddenly has an ethereal look on his face. When I ask him what the face is for he tells me that he's looking into the future. Actually, he says "I'm clearing the mist of the unknown's foggy dew to further aid you, Thomas." Julian quips that, "You've been smelling your own bloody knickers for too long, Vicky. I told ya that stink would turn your brains to piss." And when I add that I think that Victor is full of horseshit, he dutifully and steadily ignores the both of us. But I can see his jaw clench furiously and I'm almost in awe of his willpower.

Victor's eyes slip open and he looks at me with a smug smile, surprising me that angels had a smug side. That should have been my first warning sign. "Maybe you should be worried, Thomas." He tells me. My eyes widen and my ears perk. That doesn't sound like good news. I look around my kitchen, wondering if there are any appliances that could come out and choke me or something. I think back if Jude has been hinting that she wants to leave me her _New Pornographers _albums in the case that she dies. What should I be worrying about?

Julian's almost permanent scowl ebbs for a moment, his eyes closed and his lips mumbling words I can't hear. The spell breaks though and he turns to Victor looking quite murderous. "She's on her rag you fuckwit. Don't try to get his knickers in a twist about something that isn't anything." Rag? My eyebrows shot up. "Her period, mate." Julian tells me with an almost sympathetic look. I turn angrily to Victor.

"I thought you were supposed to be the voice of reason and goodness. Not out to instigate trouble or 'twist my' … my whatevers." I don't want to say 'knickers', it doesn't feel right. And Julian mocks me when I do.

But I challenge Victor nonetheless, not really feeling foolish for talking to someone so small. And invisible to everyone else. I got over the feeling a long time ago. Besides I worked with Chaz Blackburn, –who's most recent bid at strung out fame is to pitch _Zippo _the idea to put out lighters shaped in the form of every member of Boyz Attack! I don't really have the heart to tell him that the only people who remember us will never admit to having ever loved us– for Christ's sake, and he is damaging to an inflated adolescent ego. So, really, I'm good.

"I am merely trying to inspire some kind of action in you Thomas. _Doubting Thomas_." I'm in no mood for anything Biblical so I tell him to shove it up his ass and turn to leave. What 'it' is, I don't know. But it was menacing enough for him to disintegrate in a displeased huff. Julian gives me a wicked smile like we have some kind of common ground and leaves me with an impious laugh. There is no love lost between Julian and Victor.

Whatever I hate them both, there exists no common ground between us. I pour my remaining coffee down the drain, watching to dark brew swirl with the cloudy creamer. It reminds me of one of Jude's sweaters that she wore once around Christmas.

I set my cup on the ledge of the sink, grab my keys and head out the door. I catch the elevator just as my neighbor, who lives in the penthouse of my building and I curse him every night before I go to sleep, Vern. He's jabbing the _close _button furiously. He doesn't like me much. I look over at Vern with a Cheshire smile, looking at his gruff form. He's hunched himself over a newspaper but is stealthily edging his way away from me, towards the other end of the elevator. He surreptitiously glances over his paper as if to scan the small area but I know he's really seeing if there's anymore room for him to move away from me. Quite the 007, he is. Vern's neck is red and his face flushes furiously.

Have I mentioned that he _really_ doesn't like me? It's got something to do with me keeping him up every night one summer. What can I say? Jude was on tour, so there were a lot of rowdy red-heads. Oh. And I dated his daughter for like a week, and never called her back after she said she wanted to wait until marriage to loose her virginity. Really the man should be thanking me. I effectively slung the chastity belt around his daughter's _shapely _hips.

"Good morning, Vern." I call to him pleasantly, watching his hands clench into fists around his newspaper.

"What's so good about it?" He grumbles and I smile wider. "Well, look outside my good man. It's a beautiful summer day. Oh and look," I peer out the elevator's window that overlooks the bustling streets of Toronto "I see a pretty girl in a short skirt. It's going to be a **good** day." I assure him.


End file.
